


Home Wasn't Built in a Day

by BMP



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, stocking stuffer 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BMP/pseuds/BMP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Change requires faith and hard work.  A little dose of cunning also helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Wasn't Built in a Day

**Author's Note:**

> These characters do not belong to the author (but if it were our sandbox, we’d let YOU play in it…) That said, this story was written purely for self entertainment and no money is being made, has changed hands, or has been paid out for the contents therein. Special thanks to GSister, since without her patience and insistence, I never would have posted anything.
> 
> At the time of posting, no one has read this except for me. I am flying without my eagle-eyed critics who make me a better writer. (Eep!) But what kind of stocking stuffer would it be if they had to read it and critique it first?
> 
> ~Constructive Criticism will be passed on to the author  
> ~Flames will be used to toast marshmallows

**Home Wasn't Built in a Day**

By the time he was staring at the empty envelopes, Chris Larabee was aware he had given the matter far more deliberation than should have been strictly necessary. He had considered the action from too many angles. He had considered the potentialities and analyzed the probabilities of the best and worst options and all the likely outcomes in between.

In the end, it still came down to faith. 

Oh, he knew all the reasons why he shouldn't do it, why it was a stupid move. Not least was that Buck had just about laughed his ass off at the idea. Unfortunately, this only tended to make Chris more obstinate. 

He took the leap.

He wrote a different name on the front of each envelope, sealed them all carefully, and placed them neatly beside his car keys. 

It was all but done now. The attack was planned, and after execution, there would be nothing left to do but brace for the fallout. 

But, of course, he had a plan for that too. 

Chris was as much a student of human nature as was Team Seven's profiler, Josiah Sanchez, although Chris came by it less formally and more practically. Thus, the third time he came home late and found a trail of snowmelt and driveway slush leading several feet down the hardwood hallway, he was not pleased--or surprised. 

He was also not by nature a person who spent time whining about his troubles. He preferred to take action. So he didn't waste any time grumbling or even sussing out exactly which person had got halfway down the hall in wet shoes before evidently remembering there was a perfectly good boot tray beside the front door and turning back. His better angels tried to convince him that if he just waited, there was a strong chance the wet-shoe-tracker might even remember to wipe up his mess next time.

Chris wasn't that patient. 

Instead, he cleaned up the mess. Then he slid the boot tray directly in front of the door and left it there to take care of matters for him. 

It didn't take long. 

On Thursday, J.D. Dunne banged his knee on his metal desk, which he did often because he had a rotating, rolling desk chair same as everyone else, and yet his was the only one in constant twisting, back-and-forth motion all day long. No one even took notice of the occasional bang anymore. Except this time it elicited a muffled "Ow!" from J.D. and a glare directed at the little chortle from Buck Wilmington.

"What's the matter with you?" Vin asked, glancing up at J.D.

"Bruised my knee," J.D. answered still glaring at Buck.

Buck's response was not sympathetic. "Maybe you should watch where you're walking."

"Maybe some idiot shouldn't put stuff in front of the door where people can trip on it," J.D. shot back.

"Maybe you should tell the idiot that," Buck said.

Buck slanted a glance toward the team leader's office and J.D. turned scarlet to the roots of his hair, which only made Buck laugh harder.

"Mean, Larabee," Buck said later, as he dropped a sheaf of papers into the inbox on the edge of Chris's desk. "Just plain mean."

Chris looked up from his papers. "Did it work?"

"Think so," Buck said. His mustache did nothing to hide his shameless grin. 

By the time they got most of the way through the winter and even Ezra had begun to believe that spring would, in fact, eventually arrive, the boys of Team Seven were in and out of Chris's house on a regular basis. They left little trails of their possessions. Chris was used to that, though, since Buck had long had a bad habit of keeping little caches of his accumulated crap stashed away all over the house like an enormous demented squirrel stocking up for a hard winter. 

It was more of a shock the first time he opened his washing machine and found someone else's sopping wet clothes already inside. But he was getting used to those kinds of surprises, too. For example, although the ringing of his cell in the middle of the night could still launch him out of a dead sleep and have him armed to the teeth and out the door in mere minutes, finding other cars parked in his driveway no longer instantly raised his hackles or his suspicions. And he was no longer alarmed when federal agents burst breathlessly through his front door, as happened often when the cable went out on the other end of town. Of course, it helped that Buck had been tramping in and out of his house unannounced, changing his channel without warning, and devouring everything in the fridge for years now. 

Buck evidently had some adjusting to do, too. Chris resolutely refused to declare Wilmington's favorite spot in the driveway or his favorite end of the sofa or the downstairs guest bedroom reserved. Buck tried justifying his claim with his rank as the team's second in command, to no effect. His claim of seniority based on their history together was also refused. The idea of "sweat equity" just made Chris laugh. Finally, Buck simply declared he had squatter's rights on account of he'd had a key and access to the house since the day the Larabees moved in. That didn't work either. But when Chris exasperatedly reminded Buck, for what must have been the thousandth time in their long friendship, that he couldn’t make demands since "you don't live here," the look on Buck's face was so comically flummoxed that Chris almost--but only almost--gave in. 

On the plus side, Vin had started showing up a few times a month to join him on his early morning runs. And Chris had learned that Nathan's fiancee Raine was an expert at making Irish coffee, which Chris didn't even know he liked until the pair of them arrived on his doorstep one evening in need of his big-screen TV. Raine, at least, had the good grace to be grateful for the favor. Nathan not so much, considering how much shit he was going to take if Chris ever told the rest of the boys that Raine made him watch movies on Lifetime. 

Not that Chris would throw Jackson under the bus like that. Hell, Chris knew as well as anyone that putting up with crappy movies was just something you did when you loved someone. That didn't mean he was going to let Nathan off easy, though. It was too damn much fun to watch his team medic walk that wobbly tightrope between "I'm too bad-ass for this" and "Yes, dear".

So, yeah, having five more pairs of boots than usual tromping through his privacy wasn't without its benefits, but it wasn't easy. At least Chris had the comfort of knowing the unique alarm codes he gave them would allow him to check whose code had been used last, if he came home and found all hell had broken loose. But he also knew it was better for everyone if he didn't check up on them. Heck, someone or maybe several someones were even getting downright regular about cleaning up after themselves. Even so, he'd have to have been an idiot--which he wasn't--not to anticipate a dust up about the food.

He found the note taped to his refrigerator. It was in 12-point Times New Roman, single spaced, and running nearly the length of the page, and included several instances of italics and bold face to indicate appropriate emphasis. Apparently, certain but unnamed misbegotten cretins, without any apparent recognition of civility or resort to conscience, larcenously removed and then devoured the carefully preserved remains of Ezra Standish's squab with black truffle sauce, which he had mistakenly left behind in the refrigerator. Also, apparently, people who turned up their noses up at the opportunity to imbibe Ezra's choice Courvoisier when it was proffered at the holiday repast should not sink so low as to finish the bottle behind Ezra's back when he had been so gracious as to let it linger in the liquor cabinet. The insult of first having his generosity rebuffed and then having his property pilfered from him by the very people he was supposed to trust above all others was described as engendering far too much indignation to express in mere words. 

This irony of this statement, coming as it did way at the bottom of the page made Chris laugh hard enough that he sat down and read that sentence again just for the fun of it. He did wonder, though, how Ezra managed to determine exactly which of Team Seven's misbegotten cretins had actually finished his Courvoisier, since Chris knew for a fact that not everyone on the team had declined the opportunity for an expertly warmed snifter or two. Josiah, in particular, had seemed to enjoy it greatly. Too bad Chris forgot about it sitting there in the liquor cabinet. Perhaps if he or Ezra had remembered it, the entire 12-point diatribe could have been avoided.

But, unfortunately, that had not happened.

Chris supposed he ought to resign himself to the role of peacemaker if only because he and the rest of the team didn't want to have to hear Ezra gripe about "The Incident" for the next six months. 

By the time the team started dribbling in to work the next morning, Ezra's note was taped neatly to the coffee maker in the kitchenette attached to Team Seven's bullpen. Squeezed in at the bottom of the paper, in neat, black strokes of ink was Chris's practical solution: If you don't want other people to eat it, drink it, imbibe it, consume it, or pilfer it, put your name on it.

Ezra sent several black scowls at his teammates and one or two at Chris out of general principle, but no more was said about it.

Still, when Chris got home from his nice hard evening run, he opened the snack cupboard to find the package of Oreos, the Cheez-its box, the Pringles can, the peanut jar, and the pretzel bag all adorned with yellow Post-Its--every one neatly labeled "Vin" in large black letters. 

"Nice try, Tanner," Chris said to the empty kitchen.

Then he threw out the sticky notes and took the Pringles into the living room to help him watch TV. 

The next morning, when the team made their groggy, grouchy way toward coffee, they found a second note taped to the coffee maker in the kitchenette. It said: You don't get to decide who eats it unless you bought it. 

Chris enjoyed another evening run--spring was definitely in the air--and returned to the peace and quiet of his house. After a short shower, he poked his head into the refrigerator to consider dinner. Placed conspicuously in front was a virgin six-pack of brown bottles of Plaid Bastard Ale. Clearly, the beer fairy had come because the bright yellow Post-It stuck firmly to the cardboard box said plainly "Chris."

Chris grinned appreciatively, plucked a bottle from the pack, and went to rifle the recycling bin. 

When Vin and J.D. went for the snacks just minutes before the Avalanche faced off against the Bruins the next Saturday, one slightly crumpled but still readable yellow Post-It note had been restored to the blue cellophane package of Oreos. 

"Yeah, but you'll still let us have some, right?" J.D. asked anxiously, dogging Vin back into the living room, arms full of potato chip and pretzel bags. 

Buck shook his head, and Chris smirked happily behind his beer bottle. 

Peace reigned--for a time. 

One Sunday, after completing his annual qualification requirement at the shooting range with a gold star and a cherry on top, Chris arrived cheerfully home to find his team medic sitting on the floor and muttering irately to himself in the downstairs guest bathroom.

Chris thought about continuing right on up the stairs, but he didn't. He stopped, and then, also against his better judgment, he asked the agent who had bent his tall frame awkwardly into the small space between the wall and the sink, "Is there a problem?"

Nathan Jackson glowered death rays up at him. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah there's a problem." 

He shoved the nearest cabinet door open wider and Chris tried not to wince as it banged against the doorframe. 

Trained amphibious commando, police detective, and federal agent that he was, Chris wondered how he hadn't known about the neat set of organizing containers Nathan had evidently purchased, put under Chris's sink, and then also filled up at some unspecified point in the fairly recent past. 

Wisely, Chris chose not to verbalize his surprise or pleasure while Nathan was shaking a box at him. The box rattled, being three-quarters full of prescription bottles in various stages of emptiness. He recognized several of them, but since Nathan was still rattling them agitatedly back and forth, he did not look closely enough to read whether they were the kind you were supposed to take all of, or the other kind--which he tended to think of as optional. 

Chris had been well trained in both interrogation and resistance to interrogation, so he said nothing. He just looked calmly back at Nathan and waited. 

"These," Nathan growled, giving the box of prescription bottles in his right hand another adamant shake, "no one can convince any of you mule-headed idiots to take as directed."

Chris did not even blink at being called a mule-headed idiot. He'd been called far worse--usually by his friends. Based on the box in front of him, though, there were plenty of mules in the herd. 

Still he said nothing. There was no point wasting breath to protest what was obviously true. Submitted in exhibit A, Your Honor. There were bottles in there with his name on them. 

With his left hand, Nathan flung a lumpy plastic grocery-store bag straight at Chris's chest. On reflex, he caught it.

"Those…," Nathan seethed and pointed at the bag like it housed a full-grown rattlesnake. 

Chris grudgingly opened the bag and looked in at a collection of empty aspirin and antacid bottles, Band-Aid boxes, and flattened tubes from sports, antibiotic and anti-itching creams. Again, he did not care to look too closely.

"Those, the same idiots eat up, rub on, and pour out like it's goin' out of style, and then they put back the empty containers, and they never say nothin' about it. Is it so damn hard for a man to say we're out of aspirin? Or go buy some his own damn self?"

Chris looked at Nathan warily. His Alabama was coming out, which was never a good sign.

Not that Chris could blame Jackson. It was good that someone cared enough to safely dispose of expired medications and stock up the first aid supplies. But it was also a thankless job no one asked him to do.

Chris did not sigh out loud. And he hurriedly converted his knee-jerk "Well what do you want me to do about it?" to a more cooperative "How can I help?"

Nathan reached up and yanked the bag of empties out of his hand. "Make some damn rules," he snapped back. 

Chris felt his eyebrows raise a little, but he took a calming breath of the kind he learned in marksmanship class and went and got his pen.

Twenty minutes later, Nathan left, still muttering but somewhat appeased, and there was now a notepad stuck on the fridge with a large hand-written note beside it. "If you used it up or it's almost gone, put it on the list."

By Saturday, the list had been started. And at the bottom, some wise-asses had also listed "Larabee's patience" and "Nate's sense of humor". 

Chris did not go to the trouble of analyzing the handwriting, which he knew well enough, but he did leave it hanging there just to find out if the last one was true. 

One Saturday, with summer in the wind and the NBA semifinals in bloom, Chris took stock. 

The fridge was full. All the white takeout containers accrued during the week had names on them. 

Josiah and Ezra had taken advantage of the halftime lull to crack open another bottle of Courvoisier and lord their superior taste over the other cretins in the room. Vin and Chris and Buck--who had squeezed himself into his favorite spot on the sofa regardless of Vin's protests--happily saluted their teammates' good taste with upraised fingers and fresh Plaid Bastards. 

J.D. and Buck had brought the snacks along with a number of items off the grocery list. They stuffed the extra cookies and chips into the snack cupboard for another day. Predictably, Vin and J.D. tried to hog all the Oreos. 

All seven pairs of shoes were piled in the boot tray, and Vin and J.D. had even helped dust the hardwoods down the hall to the guest room with an aggressive game of floor hockey in their socks. It wasn't quite the way Chris would have done it, but hell if the floor didn't look cleaner. 

Nathan sat contentedly by the open door to the deck managing to blow at least some of his cigar smoke out into the fresh Colorado air. 

Waving his hand in distaste, J.D. had pointedly suggested a rule that "If it stinks, you have to take it outside," at which point Buck jumped right up, grabbed hold of J.D. and said brightly. "Out you go then. Chris get his feet."

"Ha ha," J.D. said sarcastically, shoving Buck's hands away from him. "You should talk. Maybe everybody would like to know where you--"

"Touchdown!" Ezra shouted senselessly at the TV. 

Everyone who could reach something small and handy hurled it simultaneously in his direction.

He emerged from the barrage brushing at his shirt but unscathed. "Please," he said frostily. "Like any of you really wanted to know what was at the end of that sentence."

"True, true," Josiah replied, eyes all but closed above his amber-filled snifter, and Chris thought maybe if he tilted his head and squinted a little, he might be able to see the profiler glowing slightly.

Buck caught the direction of Chris's gaze and grinned. He put his Plaid Bastard down on the coffee table, the thunk of the glass muffled by the soiled cardboard beer mat beneath it. This one was printed in Czech and had a hand-scribbled phone number on it and a suggestive little message, which Buck had always insisted was intended for him. Even now, years and miles away just looking at the ancient cardboard disk put a dopey smile on Buck's face.

Looking back, Chris wondered what he'd been so concerned about in giving the boys keys and free rein. Hell, compared to Buck, house-breaking the rest of the pack had been easy.

Chris smiled smugly back at Buck and sank a little deeper into his recliner. As the second half started, he looked around at his home and the little band of misfits cluttering up his living room and felt a little bit like glowing himself.


End file.
